by Cecilia Gray
Hayden had no empirical evidence of her love. She had never repeated her confession of seven years ago, and indeed, their interactions had become rather similar to verbal jousts. But he knew she still fancied herself in love with him.
The proof was shining through her.
Even as she sparred with him, like she always did, and even as she disagreed with him, like she always did, she always gazed at him with a satisfied, secretive smile on her lips and those light green eyes filled with admiration. As she did now from across the dining table.
If they were ever in a room with other men, she seemed only able to respond to him, to compliment him.
As if she believed they were perfectly suited.
Worse yet, his mother seemed to have caught the bug. She was all but applauding her own ingenuity as she glanced between them, stars in her eyes. He’d predicted this—if not with Hanna, then another candidate—when his father had left, but he’d knowingly stayed behind.
Nothing was more dangerous than a mother at leisure with an eligible bachelor for a son.
Then again, he supposed there were things worth enduring to ensure one’s mother was not lonely.
“We’ll have to begin right away,” the countess was saying.
“Pardon?” he asked. He wasn’t usually given to a wandering mind. He hoped Hanna’s silliness wasn’t contagious. No, of course it wasn’t. He knew that.
“You must not trouble yourselves—” Hanna began.
“Oh, but we must,” his mother insisted, looking back to him. “Hanna’s launch into society is of utmost importance.”
He didn’t miss Hanna’s swallowed sigh—so the girl wasn’t eager to be fed to the lions? Of course not. A launch in society was a search for a husband, and he knew Hanna had her sights set directly on him.
“I think it a wonderful idea.” He was grateful for it. It had been why he hadn’t protested the idea of Hanna living with them. A launch would give his mother something to do, even if her nefarious motivation was seeing them married, and would place Hanna on the marriage mart to someone else so she could divest herself of her feelings for him.
There also was the fact that she’d missed her debut because of her mother’s death, and he wasn’t insensitive to her situation. His mother launching her into society was a multi-pronged solution to several problems. “I’m sure the launch will keep you both very busy.”
“You as well,” his mother said.
Hayden set down his knife and fork. “How so?”
“Hayden,” his mother scolded. “There’s an incredible amount of work to be done in a short period of time. The Season is upon us, so I can’t delay her introduction. Don’t think your participation won’t be necessary.”
“What do I know about launching someone into society?”
“I thought you knew about everything,” Hanna said.
He couldn’t tell if this was one of her lovesick declarations or if she was egging him on. He also couldn’t tell why his pride had him saying, “I’m sure a society launch isn’t that difficult.”
“Is that so?” his mother said. “It sounds like something we should prove empirically.”
“An empirical proof of the relative difficulty of a society launch?” His interest was piqued. “How do you propose that?”
“We’ll arrange two events,” the countess said. “I’ll prepare one event with one set of eligible bachelors, you the other. And we’ll see which is more successful.”
“Assuming we indulge this, how do we measure success?”
“The only way,” she said. “By the number of marriage proposals resulting from each.”
Hanna dropped her fork, which clattered against her plate, sending bits of roasted potato across the table. He watched her eyes grow wide and her lip tremble as she made excuses to the staff who were rushing to clean up her mess. “Lady Landale, I could never thank you enough for your hospitality, but there’s no need…this rush…if it is because I am a burden—”
“You’re not a burden,” Hayden said before his mother could respond, although she did seem content to watch him serenely and sweetly from across the table. “You may not be aware, but my mother has a habit of wagering, although she never wins.”
“Then I must be due for a victory,” his mother said.
The countess’s gaze remained fixed upon his. After a moment, he couldn’t help a glance across the table. This was probably the quietest he’d seen Hanna. She likely did not know how to intervene. Most people didn’t whenever he and his mother locked horns.
His mother was presenting a puzzle.
He knew she ultimately wanted him married to Hanna. So why would she encourage a race for proposals?
After several seconds of consideration, he rejected the question. It did not matter.
Launching Hanna would not only keep her busy, the race for marriage proposals would ensure she was safely off the mart and out of his mother’s speculations for him. Even the countess wouldn’t deny a suitable match for their guest if one presented itself.
“What of the order?" he asked. “Whoever launches first may be at an advantage…or disadvantage.”
“Disadvantage,” his mother said. “Proposals are more likely to follow the second event because attendees will also have the benefit of hearing about her through the rumor mill after the first. However, I will forfeit the advantage, as I’ve put on numerous fetes and you have no experience.”
“Your generosity isn’t necessary. I’m sure I’ll fare well without it.”
“This isn’t just about you.” She speared a piece of asparagus. “I would hate for you to garner no proposals at your event because of your failure, and then what of poor Hanna? Would you see her so humbled?”
He felt a pinch in his chest at Hanna’s distressed expression. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said with ire. “Even if I failed miserably at event planning, she would garner proposals on her looks and manner alone.”
“Is that so?” his mother said slyly.
Hayden realized too late his mistake at being goaded—not until he saw Hanna’s lovesick grin and starry eyes.
A trap well laid by his mother. He would remember not to underestimate her in future.
* * *
Lady Hanna Morton was exhausted by the time she collapsed on her soft goosedown-filled bed, her hair splayed over the pillow. Her body imagined it had run to and from Bath, leaving her with aching feet, a sore back, and a slight headache.
Hayden had retired to the study directly after dinner, and she had seen the lamps burning under the door even as she prepared for bed hours later. Lady Landale seemed positively gleeful as she made for bed—as if an easy rest were guaranteed.
She and her son had simply laid out Hanna’s life for the next two weeks. Each would have six days to prepare her for a ball on the seventh. They had wagered, and the prize was to see Hanna engaged.
Her father would have been amused by the proceedings. Hanna was not often stunned silent, but the wager had rendered her mute. She was known for saying exactly what she was feeling, but she’d been feeling so many conflicting emotions that she didn’t know which words to use first.
At the tip of her tongue, always, was a declaration of love for Hayden. But this would have been closely followed by a declaration of mortification to be the object of such attention.
Ah, but she smiled as she imaged her father’s reaction to the conversation. “Are you taking odds?” he would have asked, and reached for his money clip.
Her father would be midway to Leicester by now and bedded down at an inn, somehow convincing the keeper to sneak him a bowl of sweet cream before bedtime. Else she could recount the night’s activities to him in person instead of in the letter she had started and stopped and started and stopped again.
Because how could she convey it?
The utter irony of it all.
Hayden, the love of her life, intended to see her wed to someone else. He had bet his pride on it. And her beloved did not k
now how to fail.
Which meant that, despite her best intentions, she knew with certainty that she would soon be engaged. To someone who was not Hayden.
Chapter Two
“Come, come now,” Lady Landale said, whisking her onto the raised platform that had been placed in the center of the morning room. “Stop fidgeting.”
Hanna forced herself to remain still as the dressmaker drew a measuring tape around her waist and then held it from hip to toe. Every so often she heard a grunt of frustration from Hayden’s study and wondered what he could be doing.
“I think the dusty rose,” Lady Rivington said with an incline of her pale blond head in an accent that betrayed her as American despite her impending title of Duchess once her father-in-law passed. “Anything to show the first blush of youth is still upon her.”
“Agreed, agreed,” Lady Landale murmured, inching closer to her cohort. “A touch of pink will de-emphasize impending spinsterhood.”
“Spinsterhood?” Hanna sputtered and propped her hands on her hips. Even though she’d resigned herself to the inevitable fate, she didn’t like hearing it from another’s lips.
“No fidgeting, dear,” Lady Landale said.
“Impending spinsterhood is nothing to be ashamed of,” Lady Rivington said. “It simply means delaying the inevitable chains of womanhood.”
“Hush, you’ll scare her,” Lady Landale said.
Hanna studied Lady Rivington’s face. Lady Landale’s cousin by marriage was young—much, much younger than herself even—and she looked deceptively younger still because of her pale skin, nearly white hair, and soft, gray eyes born of a fairytale. She must have been monstrously younger than her husband, the heir to the Duke of Abernathy, one of the oldest lineages in the country. Their marriage had been scandalous—Lady Rivington had been barely twelve at the time of their engagement, and American to boot. Yet she stood here as self-possessed as any matron twice her age, with a reputation for elegance and sophistication.
“Do you like being married? Do you like your husband?” Hanna asked.
“How forward,” Lady Rivington said with a bark of laughter.
“She really has no idea of propriety. It’s refreshing,” Lady Landale said. “And yes, my dear, I adore being married and adore my husband although I do not adore his travel schedule.”
“I adore not being unmarried,” Lady Rivington said. “And I adore my husband’s willingness to let me alone.”
“But do you adore your husband?” Hanna prodded.
Lady Rivington fussed with a piece of sample cloth from the dressmaker. “Many couples have the misfortune of having had chosen for them what they would not have chosen for themselves.”
“Can you still be happy?” Hanna knew Hayden would succeed—knew he would ensure she was engaged soon. She couldn’t picture a life with this mysterious person who was not Hayden. “Can you still be happy and adore marriage even if you aren’t married to your choice of husband?”
Both women went stone silent. Even the dressmaker’s hands stilled at her feet, where she was making marks on a hem.
“Well?” Hanna asked.
“You’ll be able to make your choice,” Lady Landale said. “If none of your proposals suit you—”
“But your first choice,” Hanna said, her eyes flitting to Hayden’s study door. “What if I don’t have my first choice? Will second do?”
More silence followed. Hanna felt increasingly hot as she stood under their scrutiny.
Finally Lady Rivington let out a peal of laughter that lit up the room. “You were right. She was worth the carriage ride over here. You’re precious, my dear. Absolutely precious.” She leaned close to give Hanna a tight hug, but Hanna did not miss the points of moisture at the corners of her eyes as she pulled away.
“It seems a shame to waste the time we have with you as captive audience,” Lady Landale said as the seamstress began to drape and measure different materials over her shoulder and around her waist. “Perhaps we should discuss the fine art of conversation.”
“I’m much practiced in conversation,” Hanna assured her.
“Not real conversation,” Lady Rivington said.
“Most definitely not,” Lady Landale added.
“Is there such a thing as conversation that isn’t real?” Hayden would agree with such an observation and she wished he was here to give her credit for it.
Lady Rivington’s hand flew to her chest. “Most assuredly!”
“If a husband is a fish, and your dress is a fishing line, why dear, the art of conversation is the deadly hook.”
Hanna gulped at the gleam in Lady Landale’s eyes.
“It’s just...I’ve never been particularly skilled at...well...acquiring new skills.” Hanna thought back to how she fumbled her Latin so well that she’d apparently been insulting and how her mathematics tables always turned into scribbles of Hayden’s profile. It wasn’t that she was stupid, it was that she found it hard to concentrate on anything for very long—except Hayden, of course.
“I suppose you’ll have to find a way to practice before the ball,” Lady Landale said.
“Yes, quite,” Lady Rivington murmured. “Practice makes perfect.” She nudged the dressmaker and pointed to Hanna’s bodice. “Can we do something about that, dear?”
“Now,” Lady Landale rubbed her hands together with a smile. “Let’s begin.”
* * *
Hayden could see Hanna’s shadow peeking beneath the door as she paced outside his study. Even if he couldn’t see the shadow, he would have felt her presence.
Hayden always felt Hanna’s presence. For one, because she was always present. Always following him or pestering him. For two, because she had the subtlety of a bright pink ox in a china shop.
He always saw her. Had even learned to pick up her scent—a gardenia perfume he knew her mother had worn that she must have inherited. Sometimes he swore she haunted his dreams just to be particularly difficult.
“Just come in,” he finally said, setting aside his pen, then rubbing his tired eyes. He’d been staring at the Twin Prime proof for so long he was going to see it in his dreams—alongside Hanna.
All those prime numbers in pairs, one by one, marching away down a line. Three and five. Five and seven. Eleven and thirteen. Seventeen and nineteen. Paired primes, together and on and on and the question remained: Could the pairings go on forever? Could mankind trip its way down an infinite number of numbers and find more and more pairs?
Even for someone who found proofs as easy as breathing, a satisfactory proof for this problem eluded him and even better scholars—the few that there were—than he.
He could use a diversion from the proof, and Hanna was always that.
The door slowly crept open.
“Is the hinge broken?”
He bit back a smile at her predictable reaction of flinging the door open and setting her hands on her hips. He braced himself for the retort, but she hesitated and dropped her gaze to the floor, clasped her hands in front of her, and meekly stepped inside.
He straightened as discomfort trickled down his spine. He knew Hanna well, and meekness did not suit her.
“I came to inquire after your day and to ask if I may make you a drink.”
Hayden narrowed his eyes to study her. Despite her lovesickness, she was not one to indulge in such banal conversation or simpering requests. His mother’s fingerprint was all over her behavior, and yet, as often happened when Hanna was around, he could not resist taking a moment to goad her.
“My day has been well, and yes, you may pour me a glass of port.”
Her eyes flew open in surprise, no doubt at his agreeableness. She stumbled to the bar table and shakily poured port from the decanter into a glass.
“I’m glad your day has been well.” She crossed the room to him, holding out the drink with both hands as he sat before her.
He took the glass from the bottom. Her hands were bare. He was struck by curiosity—what would she
do if he drew his finger against the naked skin at the back of her hand?
Surely this curiosity was spurred by her unusually deferential manner—no doubt a plan of his mother’s—yet the quest for an answer burned within him. Would she drop the glass? Would there be an outburst?
He wouldn’t do it, of course. He couldn’t. It would be irresponsible to toy with her feelings even in the name of scientific inquiry, but he couldn’t deny that the desire was overwhelming. Her hand was a slip of the finger away. He could easily graze the warmth of her skin.
Hayden felt his breath go shallow, and brought the glass quickly to his lips. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Her inability to meet his eyes irked him. Now he wished he had touched her, just so she would look at him.
“Will that be all?” he said.
“Unless you require more of me.”
Annoyance flared beneath his breastbone. “And if I do?”
Finally, she looked at him, peeked down with her green eyes beneath those lashes. “Wha—what?”
He swallowed again. “What if I require more of you?”
Her lips parted. “Then ask it.”
Damn and blast, but his imagination took a turn. Instead of seeing the skin at the back of her hand he was seeing the skin at the curve of her breast and the flare of her hip. “What do you want?” he barked, shifting to cross his legs and taking another drink as his throat went dry.
She furrowed her brow. “I thought we were determining what you wanted?”
What he wanted was not a topic for polite conversation. “What do you mean by this charade?” he asked, sweeping his hand around the room. “The deference? The accommodation?”
She dropped her clasped hands to her sides and glanced at the door as if questioning escape.
“No, you don’t.” He stood and maneuvered to block her, though it meant standing close to her, close enough to smell the gardenias. “You’re to stay with us for an extended period of time and I will not condone mind games.”
